Sunday, April 17, 2011

Lunar Flora

You are the sweat on the brow of a mother in her thirteenth hour of labor. You are the fickle fingers of a child grazing a splintery fence midday. You are a sixteen-syllable sentence uttered by a woman with beautiful lips. You are the thousands of end-of-the-world kisses in constant exchange at each terminal. You speak and rain falls upward. You blink and butterflies dissolve. There are shells of people out there trying, each day, to become an atom in the vast dance of your movements, to seek the mode in the range of your emotions. You are bottled nebulae with a cork that is waiting to pop.
You are lunar flora: prickly pear cacti which fill craters steeping in a celestial marinade hailing from the Horsehead. And should you stand beneath the sun for too long, the land which surrounds you would recede into the dark recesses from whence it came, and the soft luminescence of your eyes would suffice to lead your way.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Subduer

You placate with
your palms, your
fivefinger tactile
psalms
And extinguish
with your lips:
two slivers of
cowardly koi fish

Thursday, March 31, 2011

The Performer II

Into a tree you carved
a message with a knife


"IF FACES ARE TOPOGRAPHICAL
YOURS IS A RAVINE
SITUATED SOMEWHERE EAST
OF MY COMPLACENCY
WEST OF WHERE I DREAM
NORTH OF ALL THINGS WHICH ARE NOT
BUT PAINSTAKINGLY SEEM"

And you walked back to your car
dead leaves flying backward
beneath your feet
you drove all the way home with
the emergency signal on
singing the same song
your parents played
the night you were conceived

Thursday, March 17, 2011

While You Knelt

What is the history
of regret?
It doesn't want to talk about
that. Trust it, that was a mistake,
it should have known better.
And if, say, that magical
memory jettison corporation
from that one film
with the blue-haired girl
actually did exist, yeah,
it would most likely
opt for that. Instead,
its head is reduced to
a pendulum inclined
to encumber a neck
too frail to support it.
Sure, it had fun,
but it's a Catholic, see,
and guilt became the
new pink as soon as John Paul
tied a rose-hued
chiffon scarf 'round the eyes
of his subordinate,
whispered redemptive
prayers into their ear- "Pretend
it's your favorite
candy," five times,
for posterity.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

The Performer I

An octave prickles
the tongue which
cradles it and
buds bust into bloom
as the need for
projection is expressed
with a single
coo
Yesterday failure fulfilled you
lips lubricated with glue
the thousand-headed
monster of the crowd
lies ravenous
its eyes cast on
you

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Count the Colors

O you

with plaid-clad

residual cherubs on your cheek

and pastel-planked

suburban scripture

How often does one pass

a leashed mut

on that stretch mark on the thigh

of lady lone star

In what manner do you display

allegiance to your

ever faithful

drag queen?

In what vein?